Warm
by Prussian Bleu
Summary: A young nations wanders the vast expanses of snow in the dead of winter in search of somewhere warm to stay, followed closely his curious neighbour. DenNor, fluff.


Pairing: DenNor

Rating: K

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: There are no warnings I just felt suddenly compelled to write dumb fluff about tiny baby nations uwu

* * *

It's cold.

Of course it's cold. It's winter, and freezing wind tears right through the young child's clothes as he walks, sharp and unforgiving. He hunches his petite shoulders in an attempt to block it out, arms wrapped around himself. His hands glow a vibrant pink in the biting cold.

Still, he pushes on, hoping to find some solace in the vast expanse of snow and ice around him. Something better than the spindly bushes that barely poke up through the white ground. There's nothing as far as he can see, yet the flurries impair his vision and as far as he can see is not very far at all.

Behind him, a curious nation observes quietly, unheard over the storm as he crunches through the snow in boots made for such weather, his red cloak pulled up over his head to shield his ears. Denmark is drawn to the boy, and it takes him quite some time to realize that it's because he's also a nation. He dares to follow a bit more closely. He doesn't want to frighten a potential friend, but he surely can't allow him to freeze to death out in a field. And the boy is so small, and his clothing so thin, that pity almost brings tears to his eyes.

Before he even makes to move to his side, the child drops to the ground, obviously exhausted and freezing. But still conscious, and Denmark is cautious as he approaches, trying not to make too much noise.

"Excuse me?" he calls gently, hoping his fellow nation speaks Danish.

At the very least, he jumps slightly and turns to look at him, so he smiles reassuringly and holds his hands up to show him that he bears no weapons.

"I'm not going to hurt you." The poor creature looks like a cornered animal for a moment; Denmark kneels in the snow and reaches a tentative hand out to him, very much aware that he tends to look much more intimidating than he means to.

He's confused and scared, and Denmark sees it in his eyes, but he still touches his hand with fingers no warmer than the snow beneath them. Something else sparks deep in his eyes at how warm Denmark feels. Even so, the boy snatches his hand back and simply sits in the snow, staring at him.

"Can you speak?" Denmark asks, and the nation stares a few seconds longer before opening his mouth.

"Can you….speak…" he repeats, and it's somewhat garbled and very strangely accented, but definitely the same words. Denmark grins. The nation backs up further.

He isn't sure this nation actually understands him, so he stands slowly and gestures for him to follow. He doesn't appear to comprehend, and continues to sit and watch him. Denmark sighs and kneels beside him again, this time much closer.

There is suddenly a very cold and very tremulous young nation tucked under his cloak, seeking whatever warmth he can provide, and he laughs. "I can take you somewhere a lot warmer, you know," he says. There's no reply from the shivering lump, so he very carefully removes the cloak and wraps it around the child's shoulders, pulling the hood up. He continues to stare, the blood read of the cloak contrasting brilliantly with his deep blue eyes.

Denmark reaches for him, and when he doesn't flinch away, he lifts him into his arms and starts to carry him back to his home. "I'm Danmark." As he expected, the child doesn't say anything in return. "Can I call you Norge?" he asks quietly. He pretends that the silence is agreement.

'Norge' pulls the cloak closer around himself, content in its heat, and after a few minutes of being carried he wraps his arms around Denmark's neck and presses his face to his shoulder, because the older nation is also very warm, and his touch is comforting, and he practically radiates friendliness so that it's difficult to resist wanting to be close to him.

And for the first time in his lonely existence, the wandering nation is warm.


End file.
